


Attractions

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pipeweed, a pig and a secret meeting at the free fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attractions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Waymeet" livejournal community "Fun of the Fair Challenge".

_Over the White Downs_

Sam lay cloud watching. There is no better place to cloud watch than lying in the back of a rolling cart on a warm summer’s day. Barely a breeze disturbed the still, fragrant air; sweet with the scent of heather and gorse and, faraway, yet sharp enough to thrill, the salt tang of the sea.

The Gaffer sat at the reigns singing and whistling and sometimes tossing his head to throw Sam a word, as the good horse – Bracken – drew them over the tufted grass and flowers, ears pricking at unfamiliar sounds, as keen to be on her way as the father and his son.

The road that wound its way through the White Downs was long and twisting, and the going slow, but that didn’t matter, not on a day like this when even the sun takes it times rising in the sky. Occasionally a faster cart would pass them by and the Gaffer would tip his hat and draw courteously into the side of the road, but once that dust cloud had settled, peace would descend once more, broken only by the sound of the skylark singing in the highest planes of air.

‘No lasses for a day or two, hey Sam-lad?’ The Gaffer called. ‘Can’t be bad!’

‘Aye, Dad,’ Sam grinned, watching as a drifting swan turned into an umbrella.

‘Hardly a cloud to be seen...’ the Gaffer went on. ‘Only those fair-weather ones, those white scraps, and we don’t have no mind of those do we? Looks set in now, too. Grand weather...grand...’

Sam sighed, resting his head against a soft, sun-warmed sack of _Gamgee’s Glory_ , the others arranged about his feet. There was enough of the good weed here to keep many a hobbit happy at his fireside this winter. Following a splendid summer of sun and light rain, the Gaffer had managed to grow and preserve his own brand of pipeweed and was looking forward to showing it off. The first weed to be grown in the West Farthing! Sam couldn’t imagine it standing long at the stall and then there would be no more work, only play, and there was more than enough to occupy his attention amongst the stalls and the tents and the breathtaking rides, not to mention all the throngs of folk. Sam hoped there may be an old friend or two amongst them. The Free Fair at Lithe attracted hobbits from all Four Farthings, even those as distant as the far flung village of Bree.

The Cottons would be there, of course, showing their prize heifers and the magnificent black spotted pig that Rosie had reared by the kitchen stove with a bottle and blanket. The Mayor would be there also and Sam had heard talk of the Brandybucks making the journey, and bringing Mr Frodo along with them. He wasn’t sure if this were true, or mere tittle-tattle, but Sam’s mind kept returning to it as it emptied itself of all else but the shaping of cloud tails. Of course it wasn’t uncommon to spy the Gentry at these occasions, but they tended to congregate around the livestock rings, where they were often summoned to pin rosettes, present cups and make speeches, or were cordoned off in their own little luncheon tent where they might eat and drink in peace away from the heat and swell of the crowds.

Sam wondered if he might get the chance to speak to Mr Frodo, or if they would remain severed by ropes and formalities. It was at these times that Sam felt the disparity between their positions the most keenly and could no longer presume upon Mr Frodo as a friend, despite all their former talk and easy smiles and it grieved him sorely to see the truth of it set before him so plain. However, he had determined to enjoy his time at the fair and not to brood too long or too hard over things that can’t be helped.

_A Sight of the Free Fair_

They smelt the fair before they came within sight of it. Sam had taken the reigns and the Gaffer was sitting up against the sacks watching the road spooling away behind them, when suddenly, as they crested a low hill, the Gaffer cried out.

‘You smell that, Sam?’ 

Sam inhaled deeply. There was an unusual, spirited smell in the air, a confused concoction of smoke and animals, fried food, animal dung, flowers, beer and mud. It was quite intoxicating all mingled up with the smell of the sea, which Sam was forever chasing, like a dog after rabbit.

‘That’s the smell of hobbits making merry - the finest smell of all!’

Sam grinned. It wasn’t often he heard his dad in such fine spirits and it lightened the journey to hear him whistling and murmuring, without a single word of complaint. It seemed the years were flying off him, like feathers in the breeze.

As they began to roll down the hill, bumping a little over the uneven ground, they saw their first glimpse of the fair; all spread out like a picnic cloth over the smooth green downs. A thick cloud of smoke and steam hung over it like a haze, the tops of the tents, with their merry, waving flags just piercing the top of it. There was a great clamour of noise too, music and voices and the calls of beasts and the rumble of carts. 

‘Guide us in, Sam!’ the Gaffer called eagerly as Sam began to weave his way through other stationary carts at the entrance gate, trying to go at a slow pace, avoiding fair-goers who were attempting to cross the path in front of Bramble’s impatient hooves. 

The Gaffer flourished his pass at the attendant, who stood, round and fat and officious at the trader’s gate, his red hat stuffed with tickets, one of which he tugged free and pinned to Sam’s chest. 

Scowling, he unlocked the gate and flapped them through and down a green path which circled the trader’s stands. At the end of this path there was a place where carts could be stored and horses rested, so Sam made for that spot. Unharnessing Bramble, Sam led her to some shade under a green tree and poured out water, laid on ready with buckets for drinking. The horse was very thirsty and drank a little before settling down for a rest in the cool grass, her legs folding gratefully beneath her. 

Sam rubbed her down with a handful of hay. ‘Good girl’, he said, stroking her mud-stained flanks, enjoying this moment of peace before he must dive into the crowds and set up the stall. 

By the time he reached their allotted spot, the Gaffer had already sold three sacks of Gamgee’s Glory and was disputing over a fourth with a stubborn-looking hobbit from Michel Delving, who swore he could get it cheaper on the market. The Gaffer was shaking his head, his lips tight as a bow. Anyone who knew Hamfast Gamgee would know that look brooked no argument, yet still the hobbit pursued his claim that good quality Glory could be bought on the first weekend of the month near the town hall in Michel Delving market square, just beneath the statue of Mayor Longfoot, and at a lower cost. 

‘Whatever that stuff is, it ain’t Glory!’ the Gaffer declared, ‘I won’t come down on this – I sell my weed for a fair price and won’t be brought down, else it ain’t worth my while slogging down here.’

It seemed the Gaffer’s good mood had soon dissipated and a frown had wedged itself between his eyes. Sam sighed, wiping the sweat off his brow as he looked over the scene. Tents and stalls stood on all sides selling wares of all kinds – gardening tools and saucepans, wool and leather goods, ribbons and beads, cups, mugs, plates, pipes and toys, hats and gloves, quill pens and ink. There was even another stall selling pipeweed but it was of a poor quality and overpriced to boot, despite its fancy labelling and the sign proclaiming that Sandy Burrow’s Famous Pipeweed restores health, wealth and happiness. 

‘I doubt that,’ the Gaffer muttered. ‘Picks your pockets, blackens your teeth and carries away your wife more like...famous indeed!’ he scoffed.

Sam nodded. ‘Well said, dad.’ 

Slipping behind the stall to take his place beside his father, he nudged him and grinned.  
‘Look who’s over there!’

The Gaffer squinted. ‘Ay it’s that tightfist again! Well, he’s welcome to it. If its Glory on that market stall in Michel Delving, I’ll eat my hat,’ he added, not for the first time. 

Another customer was hovering around the stall. Sam hoped the Gaffer’s black face wouldn’t put them off and stepped forward with a friendly smile. He needn’t have worried; this time an easy deal was made and the customer walked away happy with his load, the Gaffer beaming and patting his purse.

By mid-day they had sold most of the weed. Sam stood patiently by the stall, trying to sell the last of it, smiling and chatting with prospective customers as his father slept in a fold-out chair in the sunshine, his hat tipped forward on his head, his legs stuck out on the grass.

_A Black Spotted Pig_

‘I’m off for a drink, dad,’ Sam said, waking his dad, who roused with a soft, baffled snort.

‘What- what’s that?’

‘I’m going to get a drink and something to eat if I can find it. I’ll bring you something back.’

‘What about the stall?’ the Gaffer mumbled, sitting up straight. 

‘It’s all gone!’

‘All gone you say? Every sack?’

‘Aye.’

The Gaffer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been selling it cheap, have you, Samwise?’ 

‘No. I’ve sold them all at full cost and folk were happy to pay it.’

‘I’m glad to hear it! A drink, you say? A fine idea. I think I’ll come along with you and see who’s about. I heard a rumour old Samuel Tunnelly were here and I’d like to have some talk with him. He used to be a good friend of mine and a fine farmer – best sheep in the North Farthing, he had. Fine coats, they had, like silk. The lasses would pay top rate for their wool.’

Sam and the Gaffer pressed on through the crowds, stopping now and then at an interesting stall, where they would inspect the goods on offer and pass comment. Neither had a mind to buy, but enjoyed the looking. Once out of the stalls, the field opened up. To their right were the entertainments; circus tents and booths of chance, a great revolving carousel, spinning chairs and rocking boats and a revolving wheel which took you up into the sky and then brought you down again. On their left were the refreshment tents, already thronging with hobbits, some carrying dangerously over laden trays and balancing drinks, whilst others were pushing in to get at the fare, causing the former to slip and curse and spill their ale. 

Before them lay the livestock enclosures. A glossy brown cow stood in the inspection ring as a large, sandy haired hobbit circled it, measuring and considering, jotting down notes in a small red book. An anxious looking hobbit – the owner of the beast – stood against the fence urging the animal not to kick as the judge lifted a leg and peered at its hoof. Fortunately, the cow remained calm and delicately balanced for the inspection. 

‘Here he is!’ The Gaffer cried, waving his stick at an elderly hobbit in a broad brimmed hat standing against the fence, nursing a pint of warm ale. ‘Samuel Tunnelly himself!’ 

Tunelley frowned and peered and then appeared to recognise the Gaffer at last, for with a loud exclamation, he raised his hat and waved it in the air. The Gaffer hastened over to the other side of the ring, smiles breaking out all over his face. 

Finding himself alone, Sam decided to go in search of food and drink, for it had been a long morning and he was feeling parched. 

Looking back, he saw the Gaffer engaged in lively conversation with Mr Tunnelly and judging by the enthusiastic nodding of heads and banging of sticks, Sam guessed they could be some time. 

The nervous-looking hobbit strode forward to accept his prize and the celebrated cow left the ring without disgrace. Sam missed the following announcement, having walked away in the direction of the refreshment tents, just as a radiant Rosie Cotton entered the show ring, her hair in ribbons, leading with pride, the beautiful spotted pig – Duchess – towards her moment of glory.

Sam found himself carried along on a wave of hungry visitors, all sweeping onwards into the relative cool of the tents. On his way through he managed to snatch a tray and a couple of bread rolls, the rest of the food being hidden behind a mass of other folk. Finding a small space to squeeze himself into, he caught up a few more savoury things – some fruit and meat pies, a little bit of fruit cake which looked suspiciously dry. Desperate to get out of the press of people, he decided to forgo the other sweets, despite the smell of strawberries and cream and hurried on to the pumps to draw two mugs of ale. It was sweetened with honey and most refreshing. He drank two mugs dry before filling them up again and carrying them carefully outside to where his dad was waiting with Mr Tunnelly, apologising as he accidentally trod on toes and nudged an extravagantly flowered hat with his crooked elbow. The lady looked daggers at him and he hastened away, bobbing round a crowd of gossiping farmers and out into the heat of the day. 

The crowds around the judging ring were cheering and a shrill voice cried out in delight. Sam moved closer, still balancing his tray before him. He could see his Gaffer beaming and whispering in his friend’s ear as the crowds parted to allow someone through. Sam wondered who that might be who could part the crowds in that way, like sharp scissors through fine cloth.

The announcer’s voice could be heard proclaiming Best Pig in Show and Sam at once thought of Rosie and her little spotted piglet who had sat on her knee through Yule dinner, eating morsels off her plate. Setting down his tray on the grass he pressed forward, not minding the sharp looks he received, and battled his way to the front. 

Rosie Cotton stood in the centre of the ring, her magnificent pig – Duchess – standing beside her, patient on its red lead, looking very fat and very glossy, her spots scrubbed white as snow. Rosie herself looked no less polished – her hair shone in the sunlight and she had on her best frock of sprigged muslin, with lilac ribbons in her ringlets to match. She looked a sight for sore eyes and many folk commented that she almost put the pig to shame. Smiling with pleasure and pride, she surveyed the crowd expectantly. Spying Sam almost at once, she grinned and waved and Sam waved back with honest affection, pleased for her success, for if anyone deserved it she did, carrying that pig about in all weathers, nursing it as if it were a babe. Some said she bathed it in cream. Whatever she’d done, it had worked. The pig was extraordinary; a beauty.

All eyes turned to the edge of the ring. All thoughts of the glorious beauty of pigs fled from Sam’s mind as Mr Frodo walked in. Although he was smiling politely and nodding to greetings from the crowd, it was plain to see that he was not at ease. Clearing his throat he made a short speech, congratulating Rosie and admiring the animal, before stepping forward to pin a red rosette to its collar. The pig snorted and Frodo nearly lost his balance, but once the object was attached and Rosie’s hand taken and pressed, Frodo seemed relieved to be walking once more into the shade at the edge of the ring, his eyes roving across the assembled crowd. 

Rosie enjoyed her applause for a little longer, blushing and grinning, before swaying out of the ring, leading her Duchess back into the cool dark of the tent, where she fell to the ground with a contented grunt and stretched out her short legs. 

Sam was staring at Frodo. He couldn’t help it. Somehow he looked different when set against the crowd. His unusual looks; his dark, fine hair and pale skin seemed even more marked when compared with the ruddy, sandy complexions of the folk that milled about. He wore his best summer breeches of cornflower blue, and a shirt so white it might have been made of cloud. Stood beside all those browns and greens, it seemed to Sam that while they were of the soil and the grass, Frodo was made of the sky and the sea and those great wide mysteries. 

Sam stood dreaming, waiting in anticipation for Frodo to notice him, wondering if he should go to him and yet quite unable to bring himself to move. He half dreaded it, half longed for it, wondering how he might be received.

And then it happened. Frodo saw him and, to Sam’s great delight, smiled warmly, with honest pleasure and with, it seemed, a sense of relief, began to make his way towards Sam, winding through the shifting crowd. 

Losing sight of him for a moment, Sam took a step forward, stepping on his long forgotten tray and spilling the drinks.

‘There you are!’

Finding his arm gripped tightly, Sam looked up from where he crouched scrabbling for bread rolls. 

‘I thought you’d gone!’ 

Rosie was smiling, new pink ribbons fluttering in her hair along with the lilac ones and some golden strands of straw. A more attentive suitor may have plucked them from there, but instead 

Sam just stood, his heart sinking. 

‘Well, what do you say?’

Sam made an effort. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Will you come with me to the rides, Sam?’

‘Oh, I don’t know if I can Rosie, I told the Gaffer I wouldn’t be long...I have some drink for him and something to eat.’

‘I’ve seen him – he’s over there drinking ale with old Mr Tunnelly – look! They look thick as thieves, don’t you worry about him. Come on, Sam, I don’t have no one else to go with and I want to celebrate!’

Sam swallowed, looking over his shoulder. Frodo stood some distance away talking with a well dressed hobbit in a feathered hat.

Sam gazed hopelessly, then turned back to Rosie. 

‘You do want to come with me, don’t you Sam?’ 

There was such a pained, sad look in Rosie’s eye that Sam could not bear to disappoint her. ‘Course I do.’

Sam looked down at the full tray in his hands.

‘Set that down, Sam! Let’s be going!’

With a resigned sigh, Sam laid his tray down in the shade and allowed himself to be led away into the heart of the fair.

_In the tents_

‘What’s the matter with you?’

Frodo turned and looked at Merry in surprise. 

‘You look like you’ve been given a week to live.’

Frodo forced a smile. 

‘Do you know what I found in the food tent?’

‘No, Merry.’

‘Only pineapples of all things!’

‘Pineapples?’

‘You remember? There was a picture of one in the library at home, I swore it was some kind of hedgehog, but you put me right.’

Frodo looked confused.

‘I suppose they shipped them up from the South. Who knows? Anyway, we must try some. I’m longing for it. Everyone’s eating them – there won’t be any left! ‘

Frodo was watching the brightly painted swingboats rising and falling in a gentle arc, Rosie’s hair streaming out like a web of gold. Sam was at the other end, smiling and laughing as they rose higher and higher into the air. 

Soon they would be betrothed and then Handfasted come harvest. 

Merry laid his head on Frodo’s shoulder, his agitated curls prickling Frodo’s cheek. Merry sighed wearily.

‘Don’t be sad, cousin Frodo,’ Merry said softly. ‘I have it on very good authority that one of  
Pip’s cousins on his mother’s side is a very fine looking creature and a good hand at golf too, or so they say...although I’ve never heard of a Took that can wield an iron...marvellous hair apparently...quite a shock of red.’

After a moment, Frodo threw his arm around his cousin and turned them about. ‘Come on, then, let’s try some of that fruit.’

Frodo and Merry ducked into the fine food tent. It was cooler in here at least and the sound of the string quartet, soothing to the spirits. Persuaded into a chair, Frodo sat, nursing a glass of wine, whilst Merry rushed over to the trestle tables where the food was arrayed, a plate balanced in each hand.

 _What had he been thinking?_ It was as if he had been living encapsulated in a dream world for months. They had become so at ease at with one another, eating their lunch side by side under the apple trees. At first Sam’s talk amused Frodo – he was always full of stories and inquisitiveness which Frodo encouraged with tales of his own and books from Bilbo’s library. But lately it seemed their companionship had deepened. One morning Sam had failed to turn up for work. This being so unusual, Frodo had panicked and ran down the hill to see what was the matter. Hamfast was in the garden and raised his head in surprise to see Mr Frodo looking so put out. Patiently, he reminded the master, that Sam was to spend the week digging a ditch in the Cotton’s fields, for they were short of labour. He had mentioned it a few weeks ago, if sir could cast his mind back. Frodo remembered and apologised for his forgetfulness. Feeling hot with embarrassment and shame, he had walked back up the hill, his heart twisting with loneliness and longing, gazing down with a kind of sickness over the green, glittering fields. 

‘Mmm you have to try this!’ Merry mumbled through a mouthful of pineapple. 

Frodo looked down at his heaped plate, trying to locate his appetite. 

‘I think I have a headache coming on...’

Merry rolled his eyes. 

‘Do you mind if I step outside a moment and find some shade?’

‘Can I have your pineapple?’

_A shady spot_

As Frodo stepped outside the tent, the noise and the heat and the smells of dust and steam pressed in at once. Shrill noises clamoured in his head oppressively as he walked through the bustle of stalls and entertainments, heading for the softly undulating waves of the downs that lay without.

He hurried, growing hotter and hotter as he pushed through without apology, hoping no one would stop him and speak. 

Thoughts raced through his mind. _When he marries, he will want a better place for his wife. He might help out on the farm. He will eat his lunch around the farmhouse table with all the little ones._

By the time he reached the higher ground, he was almost in tears. Sinking down onto the prickly heather, he hid his face in his hands. 

_What has happened to me? Am I so lonely? If I wanted company, I could find it and yet somehow I know it wouldn’t be enough. It’s not that, it’s more than that; it’s a kind of madness._

Frodo opened his eyes onto the bluest sky he had ever seen and remembered that this day was Lithe day and the longest of the year. Many hours lay before darkness. He thought of all those long, lazy hours stretching ahead like an idle carpet unrolling. He could let them lie, useless, sunk in misery, or else he could use the long night to his advantage. It was sure to be warm and light, there was barely a cloud in the sky. Let Rose Cotton have her day, perhaps he could take the night?

_Taking the Night_

Sam was beginning to feel queasy - he had been pulled and pushed and spun about so many times. Rosie, however, was dancing on her feet, eating ice cream, her arm linked with his, marking them as a couple in the eyes of any who passed. Sam could see them taking note and smiling, whispering to each other. He didn’t know how to feel. Rosie was a nice enough lass, and to be married to her would be no chore and yet, something in his heart shrank from it, as if it were frail and might crumple up and wither should it be so enslaved.

Rose had stopped and was chatting to a friend from Bywater; they were talking so intimately, their bonnets brushed together. 

‘I think I should go and find the Gaffer now, Rose, it’s been hours,’ 

Rosie turned in surprise, letting go of his arm. ‘I’m sure he’s alright, Sam.’

‘I know, I’d just like to see for myself. Besides, I could do with a drink.’

Before Rosie could protest further, he made his farewells to her friend and hurried away. It was a poor excuse, but Sam could think of no better. Drawing himself a mug of ale at the refreshment tent, he found a relatively quiet place against a stand of twisted trees and sat beneath their shade, listening to the dull thump-thump of his heart above the sound of the band, as he waited for a glimpse of blue amongst the greens and browns.

He didn’t know if it was the heat of the day or the ale, but somehow he fell asleep and was only woken by the shadow that fell across his face, cool and caressing. 

Pushing back his hat, he squinted up, disorientated, an empty glass in his hand. 

‘Go steady on the ale, Sam.’

Realising how he must look, Sam gathered himself together at once, sitting up and straightening his clothes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Sorry, Mr Frodo!’

‘Not at all,’ Frodo smiled. ‘I’m sorry I alarmed you.’

Sam dropped his eyes. 

Frodo stepped closer, under the shiver and shade of the trees. ‘Are you enjoying the fair?’

‘I think I’ve had enough of it for now,’ Sam sighed. 

‘Will you return...’

‘Tomorrow morning, Mr Frodo.’

‘With the Cottons?’

‘No, no, sir, the Cottons are going home tonight. They have the beasts to see to.’

‘Of course.’

Frodo sat down beside Sam, resting his back against the trunk of a tree. A light breeze rose and rustled the leaves above. 

‘That’s better,’ Sam said. 

‘It is.’

Sam looked at Frodo. Frodo’s eyes were closed. 

‘I have heard,’ Frodo remarked, in an off-hand manner. ‘The fair is quite a different place at night; another world altogether.’

‘I don’t suppose many will be sleeping.’

‘There are to be dances on the downs and a great bonfire, I hear.’

Sam held his breath. ‘Will you be going?’

‘I don’t think Merry will want to, there’s a card game planned, but I think I might wander out about midnight and wait for the dawn. I wonder what the stars look like from a swingboat?’

‘Very fine I should think,’ Sam said, biting his lip.

Frodo’s eyes flashed open and held him.

Sam nodded. 

‘Saaam?’

Frodo raised an eyebrow.

‘The Gaffer.’

‘You should...’

‘I’ll go.’ Rising unsteadily to his feet, Sam spied his father’s stick waving above the crowd. 

‘Goodbye for now, Sam.’

Sam nodded and walked away.

~ ~ ~

Not for the first time that day, Frodo was forced to disentangle himself from Merry’s arms. Frodo suspected he was a little the worse for drink.

‘Why?’ Merry wheedled. ‘The Bolgers will be coming and those others we met in the tents – you  
know that tall one liked you – the one with the ears. Please don’t let us down!’

‘I don’t much care for cards.’

‘But what else is there to do? Frodo - you’re not going to that bonfire are you? There’ll be all sorts there!’

‘No, I just want to sit and look at the stars, enjoy some peace and quiet.’

‘You’re a strange one, Frodo Baggins. I don’t know why you came if you’re not going to enter into the spirit of things.’

‘I pinned a ribbon on a pig, didn’t I?’

‘That’s not what I mean and you know it – what better opportunity is there to meet available companions?’

‘Brandybuck Hall?’ Frodo peered at himself in a small mirror and combed his hair. 

‘Under the beady eye of my mother – not likely! And why are you taking such an interest in yourself?’

‘Well as you say, you never know.’

Merry threw himself into a chair and sulked. 

‘Tomorrow you can have my full attention, I promise you.’

‘On the journey home, when I’m suffering with my head and enduring the bumpiest road in the Four Farthings?’ 

Frodo laughed. ‘Have a good night, Merry. I won’t wake you.’

‘Goodnight cousin. Have fun. I hope a shooting star falls on your head.’

Frodo grinned and ducked out of the tent.

~ ~ ~

It was dusky outside, but not truly dark. Purple shadows lay over the grass and a pleasant cool breeze was carrying over the downs, bearing with it the scent of the sea and distant lands. Frodo breathed it hungrily. The fairground was quiet. Everyone had walked out to the bonfire dance on the downs. To the east, giant flames licked and writhed, turning the dark blue sky to black. Music drifted down with the sound of voices laughing and calling.

On the empty field, the fairground rides cast strange shadows on the ground, with their tilting angles and curves. The big wheel creaked in the breeze, its splayed arms outspread like a patient spider. Frodo walked beneath the monstrous shadow, towards the graceful swingboats, which rocked to and fro as if pulled by an invisible hand. 

He touched the painted side of a hanging boat, tracing the image of a flame. 

Soft footfalls in the grass, quiet as a hare, caught Frodo’s attention, and a light, fast breathing. Relief and fear flooded through him all at once making him feel lightheaded. 

‘I’m here, sir,’ Sam said, almost in a whisper.

Frodo turned and smiled, all at once unsure. Sam looked so open, so curious and bold, he didn’t know what to say. 

‘Have you ever rode one of these?’ Sam asked.

‘No, never.’

‘You wanted to see the stars, but I don’t know if it’s dark enough...’

‘We could watch the flames.’

Sam clambered up into the boat and stood, the boat rocking perilously, as he held out his hand. ‘Here...’

Frodo clutched it and climbed in, settling himself opposite Sam. 

‘You take the rope,’ Sam said. ‘And when the boat falls, you tug it up. Here, let me start.’  
Sam tugged and the boat began to dip. Frodo grasped and pulled back, gasping lightly as it began to rise in a lurch. 

‘That’s it!’ Sam laughed. 

The boat creaked and Sam pulled harder, raising himself as Frodo dipped down nearly to the ground. Frodo laughed, gripping the rope and tugging back, swooping high once more, as if he had wings, his stomach rolling. 

Overhead, red sparks danced. ‘Do you see them?’ Frodo called.

‘They look like red stars bursting!’

Frodo laughed. 

Sam yanked on the rope and Frodo let out a yelp, hanging onto the rope, his eyes shining. It was like a kind of bliss to watch him abandon himself in this way. Sam did it once more, just to watch, and then again and again.

‘I love this!’ Frodo shouted.

‘I love you!’ Sam called back. 

The boat moved as if by itself, tugging them away from one another; each new stroke, another separation. Suddenly, it was too much. Sam let go. He fell to his knees and crawled along the bottom of the boat until his hands were upon Frodo’s thighs. The boat continued with its momentum, rocking back and forth, beginning to slow. 

Sam looked up into Frodo’s face. ‘I love you,’ he said once more, softy. 

‘Lie down, Sam,’ Frodo said.

Sam obeyed. There was just enough room for him to fit sideways, his knees slightly bent against the ribs of the boat. He was so full of fire and excitement, he felt as if his body might burst into sparks, like those fireworks overhead. 

Frodo clambered down beside him, the boat rocking and trembling as he slipped his smaller frame into that quiet, narrow space. They were lulled for a moment, by the movement and their own awe of what their minds and bodies had chosen to do, but then Frodo ran his fingers through Sam’s hair with such loving grace, that Sam shivered and relaxed. 

‘Can I kiss you? I want to kiss you.’

Sam closed his eyes and nodded. 

Frodo’s breath was hot against his cheek and Sam’s lips parted expectantly, hopefully, his mouth dry. At first it was light, merely a cool brush across his mouth, but then suddenly it deepened, becoming strong and hungry. Sam’s arm moved around Frodo’s shoulder. Someone moaned. Someone shifted. Tongues fluttered against lips and ears and fingers. Sam threw a leg around Frodo’s hip, drawing him close, feeling his slim, hard body pressing against his stomach. This excited him more than he could bear and he kissed Frodo hard on the mouth, pushing with his tongue and his hips and his hands, making the boat rock and sway on its hinges, groaning. 

Frodo pulled back for a moment, breathing fast. ‘I denied myself this,’ he murmured. ‘Why did I deny myself?’ 

‘Don’t...’ Sam whispered, unfastening his breeches and tugging them down his thighs. He brought 

Frodo’s hand to his lips and kissed it, moistening it with his tongue. Bringing it down, he wrapped it around his thick erection and held it tight within his own. Hastily, Frodo did the same and then they lay once more pressed together, moving in rhythm with the boat, their pleasure swelling in the other’s fist, their mouths bruised with kisses. Sam came first, releasing with a thick moan, his eyes squeezed shut, choking on a curse. Frodo soon followed, but his eyes were open and staring at the tilting moon that had appeared at last, like the ghost of itself. The strength of his orgasm made him cry out and then lie still, at once overcome with tears. 

Sam cleaned them up quickly and tenderly, kissing the damp place on Frodo’s pale belly where he had spilt his own seed. Frodo buttoned up Sam’s breeches and kissed him gently on the mouth. Sam felt the tears on Frodo’s face and frowned. 

‘It’s all right, Sam, I’m not upset.’

‘Are you sure?’

Frodo smiled and nodded. ‘Come and lie with me again.’

Sam lay down once more, their heads side by side, leaning against the rocking seat, as if they were on a ship moving through an ocean of sky. 

‘Will you marry Rose, do you think?’ Frodo asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘I don’t think so, not if you’re here, anyways.’

‘I wouldn’t want to stop your happiness, Sam.’

‘You _are_ my happiness.’

Frodo nibbled him on the neck, making him huff a laugh. ‘I love everything about you, Sam, even the way you taste. Just as I imagined – like grass and milk and honey.’

‘You do say some queer things.’

‘Well, it’s true.’

‘I don’t think I want to go.’

‘No, me neither.’

‘How many hours ‘til dawn?’

‘Only three, my love.’

‘I don’t want to sleep.’

‘Nor me,’ Frodo yawned. 

‘I don’t want to sleep...I don’t...’

Frodo held Sam close as tears filled his eyes. 

‘It ain’t sorrow.’

Frodo kissed his head. ‘I know that, Sam. I know.’

Then they were both silent, for the mystery of the night caught them in its web, but for all its glories, the seduction of sleep grew at last, too great to refuse and both found themselves drifting, still locked in their embrace, the dawn yet hours away.


End file.
